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33
Le Lubéron
The next mainland-bound car ferry departed Ajaccio at half past eight the following evening and arrived in Marseilles shortly after dawn. Gabriel and Christopher, having passed the night in adjoining cabins, rolled into the port in a rented Peugeot and made their way to the A7 Autoroute. They headed north through Salon-de-Provence to Cavaillon, then followed a caravan of tour buses into the Lubéron. The honey-colored houses of Gordes, perched on a limestone hilltop overlooking the valley, sparkled in the crystalline morning light.
“That’s where Marc Chagall used to live,” said Christopher.
“In an old girls’ school on the rue de la Fontaine Basse. He and his wife, Bella, were reluctant to leave after the German invasion. They finally fled to the United States in 1941 with the help of the journalist and academic Varian Fry and the Emergency Rescue Committee.”
“I was just trying to make conversation.”
“Perhaps we should enjoy the scenery instead.”
Christopher lit a Marlboro. “Have you given any thought to how you’re going to make your approach?”
“To Françoise Vionnet? I thought I’d start withbonjourand hope for the best.”
“How cunning.”
“Maybe I’ll tell her I was sent by a mystical Corsican woman who cured me of theocchju. Or better yet, I’ll say that I’m a friend of the Corsican organized crime figure she hired to kill a Spanish art dealer.”
“That should win her over.”
“How much do you suppose the don charged her?” asked Gabriel.
“For a job like that? Not much.”
“What does that mean?”
“Maybe a hundred thousand.”
“How much was the contract on my life?”
“Seven figures.”
“I’m flattered. And Anna?”
“You two were part of a package deal.”
“Is there a discount for that sort of thing?”
“The don is unfamiliar with that word as well. But it warms my heart that you two have rekindled your relationship after all these years.”
“There was no kindling involved. And we don’t have a relationship.”
“Did you or did you not borrow a million euros from her to buy that fake Cuyp riverscape?”
“The money was repaid three days later.”
“By my wife,” said Christopher. “As for your approach to the aforementioned Françoise, I suggest you fly a false flag. In my experience, respectable residents of the Lubéron don’t hand over briefcases filled with cash to someone like His Holiness Don Anton Orsati.”
“Are you suggesting that Françoise Vionnet and Lucien Marchand, an unknown painter with no established sales record, might have been involved in a criminal enterprise of some sort?”
“I’d bet my Cézanne on it, too.”
“You don’t own a Cézanne.”
They rounded a bend in the road, and the Lubéron Valley revealed itself as a patchwork quilt of vineyards and orchards and fields ablaze with wildflowers. The brick-colored buildings of Roussillon’s ancient center occupied a ridge of ocher-rich clay on the southern rim. Christopher approached the village along the narrow Chemin de Joucas and eased onto the grassy verge at the point where the slope of the hill met the valley floor. On one side of the road was newly plowed cropland. On the other, partially hidden from view behind an unkempt wall of vegetation, was a small single-level villa. From somewhere came the muted baritone bark of a large dog.
